


Raising Warlock

by Brownies96



Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale learns to be good with kids, Bullies, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Pokemon GO - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Warlock is a cute child, Warlock is autistic, normal kid things, or so they think, raising the antichrist, shitty parenting from the Dowlings, you can pry that from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-07 17:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21461812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brownies96/pseuds/Brownies96
Summary: This fic is more compliant to the TV series than the books in terms of timeline so I’m sorry if you wanted everyone being soft for baby Warlock. Instead they’re gonna be soft for 5-year-old Warlock.Also, TW for shitty parenting from the Dowlings
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1506341
Comments: 13
Kudos: 140





	1. Bother Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is more compliant to the TV series than the books in terms of timeline so I’m sorry if you wanted everyone being soft for baby Warlock. Instead they’re gonna be soft for 5-year-old Warlock.
> 
> Also, TW for shitty parenting from the Dowlings

Chapter 1 – Bother me

2013

As far as Mrs Dowling was concerned, there had been no question as to whether or not she would hire Nanny Ashtoreth. True, the other applicants for the position had never turned up, and she couldn’t really remember the interview, but the nanny seemed capable enough.

Warlock’s previous nanny had retired a few weeks ago. It had always been her intention to leave before Warlock started school. Harriet had assumed that Warlock would be fine without one now that he could walk, talk, and dress himself. Summer had shown that Harriet Dowling had been very, very wrong.

As it turns out, children need attention, and when they don’t get it, things go wrong. Harriet did not have time for Warlock in her busy social calendar, and even if she did, she would have filled it with something else. She had better things to do, like berate the grounds staff, including their new addition, a rather ugly older man called Brother Francis. Harriet Dowling rather enjoyed berating her staff, you were allowed to yell at your staff about all the ways you were disappointed in them, unlike your husband who was never home or your son who seemed to have no discernible personality.

Nanny Ashtoreth, or Crowley as she was known outside the walls of the Dowling Estate, had decided that she disliked Harriet Dowling on sight, but hadn’t decided that she hated her until several weeks into her work.

She was about to leave, having cleaned the mess they’d left in the playroom with a snap of her fingers (a gesture very reminiscent of Mary Poppins), after putting Warlock to bed in his room the size of a small apartment. The Dowling’s resided at Winfield House, the traditional residence of the US Ambassador since 1955. The building had been built in the 1930s, but in a definitively ‘Old American Style.’ It looked like the sort of house one of the founding fathers would have owned. It was the exact sort of house that one could imagine a horror film taking place in, charming at first but deeply rotten beneath. Crowley was a fan. She walked past the heavy oak door that lead to Warlock’s room and paused, she couldn’t hear the heavy breathing of a sleeping child. Most people wouldn’t have been able to hear anything at all, but she had never claimed to be most people, or even a person. She listened a little more carefully and was relieved to hear that Warlock was breathing (imagine sending that report to Hell: So sorry, the antichrist died on my watch, try again?). His breath was coming in sharp, quick jabs, at a tempo of about 170 beats per minute. That was a lot faster than it was supposed to be.

She expected something else to go with it, maybe the odd sob or something, but nothing came. She opened the door and saw Warlock in the exact position she’d left him in. He wasn’t moving or crying; he hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“Warlock? Are you alright?” She asked, remembering to keep the Scottish accent.

Warlock shot upright, his eyes darting around at the windows and the door behind Nanny Ashtoreth.

“I’m fine,” Warlock said, not meeting her eyes (or sunglasses, rather).

“You don’t look fine,” she said, examining the terror in his mind with her demonic essence. “Did you have a nightmare?” She knew he had, but he needed to say it.

Warlock nodded. Right, this was going to be tricky. Her job was to influence him, to act as the dark to Aziraphale’s light (she still hadn’t gotten over how ridiculous his disguise was). But he was supposed to be a kid, to grow up and do kid things along the way. Having nightmares and being scared was part of that. Crowley could sympathise with nightmares; she’d had enough of her own.

“Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep again? I can keep you safe.” Not really, in fact, she was rather hoping he’d keep her safe when the time came.

Warlock nodded again, she adjusted his sheets, so he was tucked in again and sat down in the chair beside his bed.

“Mom says I’m not supposed to bother anyone after bedtime,” Warlock whispered, so quietly that a normal human wouldn’t have heard.

“Nonsense,” Crowley said, “I’m your nanny, you can always bother me.” She justified this by reasoning that if Warlock came to her for advice and such, then she’d be able to strengthen her evil influence. It definitely had nothing to do with the sweet, scared child slowly drifting off to sleep in front of her.

The next day, Harriet Dowling awoke to find that her phone calendar had glitched some time during the night. She was furious and terrified, what if she missed something important? Crowley smirked as he watched her storm about the house.

After all, the need to cause trouble is a completely natural demonic impulse. Many a biologist who found themselves in Hell, theorised that it was an inherent part of their DNA. This is incorrect, DNA is exclusive to the creatures God made in fixed forms, angels (and therefore demons) have nothing to do with it. It was the anthropologists and psychologist (plenty of whom found themselves in Hell) that had a theory that was at least a little closer to the truth: Demons are trying to fill a hole left by Her grace and love by acting out. It’s a phenomenon often visible in troubled children. Of course, any psychologist, anthropologist, or the like who is stupid enough to say as much to a demon immediately finds themselves being tortured along with the worst people in history. Demons do not like to hear anything close to the truth about themselves, and to try and tell them is a one-way ticket to torture-ville.

In 1986 it was suggested that there were two ways a child can respond to an absent parent: They can either make as much trouble as they can in the hopes the parent will be forced to acknowledge them; or they can try desperately to be perfect, believing that it was some kind of mistake on their part that lead their parent to abandon them, and will try to correct this behaviour in themselves despite not knowing what it was. Just some food for thought, food that certain angels should probably try as well.

What Warlock did in response was actually different to both of these. He tried to make himself as invisible as possible. He didn’t even know he was doing it, but in order for a child to crave attention, they need to have some kind of memory of positive attention, something for them to aim for. Something Warlock had never received from his vapid mother and eternally absent father.

“He doesn’t like to talk,” Crowley remarked to Aziraphale one Tuesday afternoon while Warlock was at school. “S’unusual. Most kids have stuff they like. They’re like you with books.”

“I’m a great deal older than ‘most kids’, Crowley,” Aziraphale said dryly. Crowley just made a face and hand gesture that clearly mean ‘you know what I mean’. Aziraphale’s face lit up with an idea.

“Crowley! That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Crowley had no idea what he was on about.

“What if he doesn’t want to communicate by speaking? Humans with hearing problems have languages that don’t involve speaking at all!” Aziraphale looked very proud of himself at this idea.

Crowley had to admit it beat her idea of somehow trying to miracle the child into trusting them. She didn’t like to think about what that might do to the kid.

“That could work. Yeah.”

They were lucky that sign languages were included in their innate knowledge of human language. Unfortunately, there was no one sign language for the English language. Aziraphale, who had a better grasp of sign language (despite, or perhaps because of, being rather bad at changing spoken languages) decided to teach Warlock BSL, rather than ASL, because if the child was to be living in England, it made the most sense for him to know the sign language people would be using around him. It also gave Aziraphale an excuse to be signing.

Brother Francis watched as Nanny Ashtoreth shepherded Warlock into the garden. He could see her point, he didn’t really talk, just the odd few words and a lot of pointing at things. He’d heard both Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling ordering Warlock to shut up as he’d run through hallways past their offices. He did hope the poor child hadn’t taken the words to heart.

“Hello, master Warlock,” he said in his West-Country accent, “what’s that you’ve got there?” It’s important to note that Aziraphale was not signing as he spoke using sign grammar, it is very difficult to say the same sentence with different grammar at the same time, so the language Aziraphale was technically signing in was Sign Supported English rather than true BSL.

Warlock held up the thing in his hands for Brother Francis to see, a toy aeroplane filled with tiny wooden dolls.

“Very nice, I can see you’re giving all your passengers a nice, safe journey,” Brother Francis said.

“What’s that?” Warlock said, pointing to Aziraphale’s hands.

“This,” he grinned, “is sign language. My old ears aren’t what they used to be, so I’m practicing.” Warlock looked at him expectantly, so he continued, “It lets me talk with my hands instead of my words, you see?”

Warlock was paying very close attention now, in a way that was very reminiscent of Crowley leaning forward to pay better attention to something. They’d only been there a few months and the child was already picking up her habits.

“Would you like me to teach you some?” Brother Francis offered. Warlock nodded so fast his hair fell over his eyes.

“Right then,” Aziraphale sat down opposite Warlock, “you know your alphabet? This is A . . .”

Across the garden, Nanny Ashtoreth watched the lesson and smiled to herself. A secret language only the three of them knew, that was going to be interesting.

* * *

By the time Summer had given way to Spring and Spring was beginning to be overrun by the cold nips of Winter, Warlock had the hang of communicating through sign. It was interesting, the more sign language he seemed to know, the more he spoke as he signed, mimicking the way Brother Francis spoke to him.

For the six hours a day Warlock spent at school on weekdays, it was impossible to find Nanny Ashtoreth. Everything she needed to do had been done, but none of the staff of Winfield House never saw her doing any of it.

Brother Francis had a better excuse to be difficult to locate. He did, after all, work all over the extensive gardens, which were looking better than ever before. Had any of them cared to check an old shed deep in a part of the grounds that resembled a forest, they would have found both of them, often sharing a bottle of wine or a light snack. Years of practice meant the other staff never saw them return to the house together when the time came for Warlock to arrive in the secret service car that ferried him to and from school every day.

The old garden shed did not resemble an old garden shed from the inside. The bare bones were essentially the same, but the room inside was homey, cosy even, with two armchairs and a neat coffee table between them. It was the place Aziraphale and Crowley could retreat to when they needed to run away from it all.

“I still don’t know what possessed you to make yourself look like that,” Crowley said, truly failing to understand the Brother Francis disguise coming from someone who had run off to France, mid-revolution, in a coat with cloth-of-silver trim.

The truth, not that Aziraphale was going to admit this to himself, let alone Crowley, was that Aziraphale had decided to exaggerate all of the worst physical attributes of his corporeal form. He might have hoped that hearing the disgust in Crowley’s voice would remind him of Gabriel and end the way he was tormenting himself by wanting Crowley to desire him, even if it could never be. It hadn’t worked yet, but Aziraphale was willing to keep trying.

“What’s wrong with it, exactly?” Aziraphale asked, keeping his expression neutral.

Crowley looked at him, “I think it’s the sideburns,” she said sincerely, “they don’t look anything like – like you. Also the teeth, they make you sound different, even when you’re talking normally.”

Well that didn’t work at all. Other than making Aziraphale make a mental note not to add sideburns to his corporation again.

“Well we can’t all be trying to give children complexes,” Aziraphale replied.

“I’m sorry, what?!” Crowley seemed to be torn between outrage and amusement.

Aziraphale said nothing. He wasn’t going to dig his own grave any deeper than he already had.

“He’s not even going to get older than eleven!” Crowley said somewhere in amongst all the spluttering.

Aziraphale watched Crowley freeze for a moment, just a moment, before changing the topic (not that far off from it, though).

“Did you hear the government’s trying to ban porn?”

“I did, actually, I’ve heard it was Sandalphon’s idea,” Aziraphale said.

“Hah!” Crowley barked a laugh, “They’re hopeless without you. I dunno what they’re thinking.”

“It’s hardly the stupidest thing in happening in Parliament at the moment,” Aziraphale said, “there’s a whole faction of them who think Britain should leave the European Union.” Aziraphale shook his head and sighed, “Still, they passed the Marriage Act, eventually. It took an awful lot to make it happen.” Aziraphale got that far off look in his eye that always showed up when he thought about the community he’d been spending his time with since the 1800s.

“Humans.” Crowley shook her head fondly.

“Humans.” Aziraphale agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked BSL because it’s closer to Auslan which I actually know (sort of), so I figure I’m less likely to make a mistake with it.


	2. Racing Through the Garden

2014

When the cold weather continued on after a rather depressing Christmas and new year, Aziraphale noticed how much easier at was getting for Warlock to give Nanny Ashtoreth the slip. He was well aware of Crowley’s dislike of the cold (dislike was putting it rather mildly) and had always wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that many breeds of snake tended to brumate throughout the Winter.

She was always there, of course, out in the garden watching Warlock race around like a small rocket. But she tended not to wonder too far away from the house, where there was warmth and air conditioning.

The cold didn’t bother Aziraphale nearly as much, Probably, he thought to himself, because he had quite a bit more padding as protection against the cold. It also came with the bonus of causing half the plants on the estate to lose their leaves, giving him a lot less work to do. In the Autumn he must have done a lot of raking, not that anyone had seen him do it, because there wasn’t a single leaf out of place, save one enormous pile for Warlock to jump into. The pile always had the most satisfying crunch.

But with the imminent arrival of Winter, the other staff had started to notice that the leaf pile was lasting a little too long, so it had to go. Warlock had been quite upset, but Aziraphale had turned it into a lesson about how things being temporary can make them special, which had calmed him down.

If anyone thought it was unusual that Warlock spent quite a bit of time in the garden talking to Brother Francis, they didn’t remark on it. Even as the weather had turned cold and damp and anyone with a lick of sense would have remained indoors.

After the staff had returned after the new year, both Crowley and Aziraphale noticed that Warlock was reverting back to his old ways of not speaking to anyone. They’d both worked as hard as they could to undo the damage a week with (or rather without) his parents had done. But it wasn’t until late February that they found out what had happened.

It was one of those cruel February days where the sun came out, trying to trick people into thinking that Spring had arrived early when it was actually freezing outside. Nanny Ashtoreth had seen through the sun’s ruse immediately and was bundled up in a thick woollen coat. She was carrying a large blue puffer jacket for Warlock, who had insisted that he didn’t need one. She gave it five minutes until he swallowed his pride and asked for the jacket.

Sure enough, Warlock’s teeth were chattering when he turned around. He mimed shrugging on a coat then put his hand to his chin and pulled it away. “Coat please.”

She rolled her eyes fondly and handed him the jacket.

Aziraphale watched all of this transpire from behind a privet hedge that hadn’t been trimmed once since he’d arrived but didn’t have so much as a leaf out of place.

It was hard to see Crowley like this, all caring and kind, when he was supposed to be convincing himself of their enmity. Aziraphale knew what they were trying to do was a long shot, every time he reported back to head office, he was reminded of the impossibility of their task. It would all be so much easier if he could hate Crowley. If he could say that he was only trying to do this all out of his holy love of humanity and their creations. But the thought that stopped him from giving up, as Gabriel lorded the stupidity of his idea over him, was his terror at having to face Crowley on the battlefield in the War That Was To Come. It reminded him of those poems he’d had published so long ago:

_“I am the enemy you killed, my friend._

_I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned_

_Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed._

_I parried; but my hands were loath and cold._

_Let us sleep now. . . .”_

Aziraphale watched Warlock play around the garden, he could have sworn he only lost sight of the child for a second before Warlock had appeared next to him. Aziraphale was about to greet him when Warlock shushed him, putting a finger to his lips. Once he was sure Brother Francis would stay quiet, Warlock pointed to himself and then crossed his hands in front of his chest and shook them twice. He was hiding.

Aziraphale nodded and pretended to zip his lips shut, lock the zip, and throw away the key, which made Warlock laugh. Aziraphale saw Crowley hear the laugh and begin to walk towards them.

“Brother Francis,” she said.

“Nanny Ashtoreth, what brings you here?” He replied.

“You wouldn’t have happened to see any cheeky five-year-olds around here, would you?” She asked, pretending not to see Warlock hiding behind Brother Francis.

“Can’t say I have, no. But I’ll be sure to tell any I see that you’re looking for them.” Aziraphale tried not to react as Warlock began to giggle from behind him.

“Are you sure, Brother Francis?” She grinned a little more maliciously, “After all, lying is wrong.”

Aziraphale was not impressed. He raised his bushy eyebrows as if to say, ‘you’re going to have to do better than that’.

“Oh well, I suppose this means Warlock has run away. I guess I’ll just have to stay here and talk to you until he comes back,” Nanny Ashtoreth said. Warlock giggled again.

“You’re not worried?” Brother Francis asked, playing along.

“Oh, I’m absolutely beside myself!” she said, still smiling, “Oh Warlock, where have you gotten to?” She put a hand above her sunglasses and pretended to look out over the grounds.

“I’m here, Nanny!” Warlock jumped out from behind Brother Francis and raced at Nanny Ashtoreth, hugging her. Crowley turned an interesting shade of scarlet as she patted Warlock on the head.

“So you are, dear. Let’s go get you ready for bed.” She offered her hand to Warlock who immediately took it and raced back towards the house. Crowley, her face still flushed, offered Aziraphale a wry smile before allowing herself to be dragged by Warlock.

Aziraphale wasn’t expecting to see Crowley until the next day. He’d packed himself up and was just settling in with a book in his room on the Estate when there was a sharp knock at his door.

“Come in,” he called in Brother Francis’ voice, even though he could sense that it was Crowley outside. The door had the good sense to open.

Crowley stormed into the small room. She looked furious; her eyes blazing behind her glasses.

“My dear, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale was trying to reconcile the happy (if slightly embarrassed) version of Crowley he’d seen earlier with this angry one in his mind.

“I just had to speak with Mrs Dowling,” she said, spitting the name like it was poisonous.

“Ah.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“She just asked me if I could work Christmas day this year,” Crowley was pacing, or at least doing a vague approximation of what one might consider pacing.

“That’s quite a way off,” Aziraphale said because Crowley seemed to be trying to burn a hole into his carpet by glaring at it.

“S’what I said. She said she needed to know now in case I say no, so she has time to organise something.” Crowley paused and then got right back on track with her rant. “She asked me because this year, they had some party to go to that wasn’t suitable for kids. And since they couldn’t get a sitter at such short notice, they just took him with them.”

“Well, it’s better than just leaving him here,” Aziraphale said, trying to see the best in the Dowlings.

“Not by much,” Crowley replied darkly. “She just kept complaining about how he wouldn’t shut up about wanting to go home all night. Gee, Mrs Dowling, I fucking wonder why.”

Aziraphale could sense that the rant was coming to an end. The way he saw it, he had two options as to how to reply. He could agree with Crowley and change the subject, or he could be just a little bit impertinent. There was an no choice, really.

“What did you tell her?”

“Huh?” said Crowley eloquently.

“Mrs Dowling, did you tell her you’d stay for Christmas or not?” Aziraphale rather enjoyed putting Crowley in situations like this. He already knew exactly what she’d told Mrs Dowling. But making Crowley admit that she’d done something nice for Warlock was a type of fun Aziraphale revelled in.

“Figured I’d stay, not like I celebrate Christmas, and its more time to teach him to be evil, isn’t it?” Crowley justified.

“You do work very hard,” Aziraphale said, looking over at Crowley smugly.

Harriet Dowling awoke the next morning to find that each of her shoes had shrunk overnight. She bought herself a new pair and considered the issue resolved until they shrunk the following night as well. It was almost as though someone had cursed her to have pinched and blistered feet for all eternity. Of course, she would never believe in something as silly as that.

Warlock came home from school that afternoon and shot himself out into the gardens like an arrow from a bow. Nanny Ashtoreth could only pity anyone else foolish enough to try and keep up with him in her heels, but a quick demonic miracle had her on her way. But after a day of being forced to sit still by adults in a cold building all while stuck in a stiff and itchy uniform, no one could begrudge Warlock his time outside.

By the time he’s gotten through most of his energy it’s nearly dark outside, and as Nanny Ashtoreth ferried him inside so he could shower and get ready for bed. He still kicked up a bit of a fuss, but in the childish way of delaying everything by asking thousands of questions.

Crowley had thought she was prepared for this, but nothing can prepare you for a five-year-old looking up at you from their bed after you’ve finished telling them the third and final story for the night and saying.

“Nanny, what’s ebola?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is a snippet of Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen. I am certain it would have been Aziraphale’s favourite of all his poetry.


	3. What Makes an Idiot

2015

It was not long after Warlock’s seventh birthday that Crowley and Aziraphale realised they had a problem. School had just started back up and it was becoming more of a struggle every morning to get Warlock off to school. Crowley had even gone so far as to use a demonic miracle to get him dressed, because Warlock was stubbornly refusing to get ready and the secret service agents in the car had been getting tetchy.

When Warlock came home at the end of the day, he did not run out into the garden with reckless abandon, nor did he look at his toys. Nanny Ashtoreth would eventually guide him outside, but he’d spend much of the afternoon looking up at his father’s office and the American flag visible through his window. It was during one of these odd, pensive moments that he asked her a question.

“Nanny, what makes someone an idiot?”

Nanny Ashtoreth decided against saying ’being Brother Francis,’ and instead replied, “An idiot is someone who doesn’t even try to know things. For example, if you asked me a question because you wanted to know something, that means you aren’t an idiot because you are trying to look for answers,” she said, rather pleased with herself for coming up with that answer.

“So it doesn’t mean being American?” Warlock asked.

“Not necessarily, idiots can come from anywhere.”

“OK.” Warlock went back to staring.

“What makes you ask, dear?” Nanny Ashtoreth was curious now. Warlock had never really shown any interest in his American heritage. Other than his accent (an odd hybrid of West London and Modern Mid-Atlantic), he’d never really seemed to think of himself as being different to the British kids he went to school with.

Warlock shrugged, apparently deciding that the conversation was over.

As soon as Warlock was in bed, Crowley snuck out to the shed where Aziraphale was already waiting (sans his ridiculous disguise, thank Satan).

“I’ve figured out what’s happening with Warlock,” she announced as she opened the door.

“Oh?” Aziraphale invited her to continue while he poured her a glass of the Nero D’Avola he’d found in the Dowlings cellar and was sure they wouldn’t miss (it had been just about to turn before he’d gotten his hands on it – that was his excuse and he was sticking to it).

“I think someone at that school of his, is bullying him,” Crowley announced before draping herself across her chair and sipping the wine. It was very good, and not just because she rather loved the idea of Aziraphale stealing it.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, appraising her carefully. “No,” he said.

“I didn’t even say anything!” she protested, sputtering.

“You didn’t have to. I know what you’re thinking and no. I can’t allow it.”

Crowley was inclined to respond by denying that she was going to do anything, but it was Aziraphale. It wasn’t as though she planned to actually hurt the kid, just scare them into being less of an ass. Still there was always the other option, the one they ‘should’ be taking.

“Fine. I’ll just go to the school tomorrow to take a look. Nothing more than that.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Aziraphale huffed. “I suppose I’ll have to go with you to prevent you from doing something both evil and stupid.”

“S’pose you will.”

The next day, despite the rather extensive security around the school, nobody noticed as two men-shaped beings exited a large Bentley and entered the building. Of course, once they had actually entered the school, anyone looking for them would have had to have been looking with a microscope.

For both angels and demons, size and shape were merely a matter of preference and ease. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had much need to change, after all, the world had been built for humans, it made sense to be the same size as them. But for going unnoticed in a very secure and prestigious education institution (as Principal Coates referred to it), it was much easier to be too small for any human to take notice.

They rested in the ventilation system, looking out one of the grilles into Warlock’s classroom. It was not as colourful as one might expect a primary classroom to be, but it had the tell-tale miniature desks and tables that always looked so sweet until anyone over 130cm (4’3”) tried to sit in it.

“So,” Crowley said, already bored, “you come here often?”

“You know I don’t. You’re the one who has to do parent-teacher nights.”

“T-that wasn’t the – oh nevermind.”

Fortunately for what little of Crowley’s dignity that remained, something changed in the classroom below.

“That’s not how you spell colour, Warlock,” the teacher said gently, Crowley had met her but he couldn’t remember her name, “its c-o-l-o-U-r, with a U. Without the U is the American spelling.” Warlock nodded and seemed to be correcting his page when another child spoke up from across the room.

“My dad says Americans don’t know how to do anything right. ‘specially not spelling,” the kid says.

Warlock looked at the kid with such hatred in his glare that Crowley made a mental note to tell his bosses about it. That kid was definitely going to suffer when the apocalypse came.

Of course, the situation escalated at lunchtime. Crowley and Aziraphale watched from the roof of the school as the child that had spoken in class approached Warlock.

“Why is he sitting alone?” Aziraphale asked.

“You know what he’s like,” Crowley replied, “he’d rather read or play on his phone than deal with these twats, especially if they’re all like that one.”

“I suppose. Don’t you think he ought to have friends?” Aziraphale was thinking about the stories he’d read, most of those children had at least one peer they’d felt some kind of connection with.

“Not at this school. Everyone here is the child of some politician or billionaire or something. And they take after their parents,” Crowley added darkly. He’d had to deal with enough of the little shits just from listening to Warlock talk about them.

“Go away, Alfie,” Warlock said to the child.

“Why, are you going to shoot me? Dad says Americans just shoot things they want to get rid of instead of fixing things,” Alfie said.

Crowley had to admit that Alfie’s dad had something of a point, but Warlock Dowling was not, and should never have been, the target of that rant.

“Has this child ever actually had an original thought of his own, or does he let his father do all his thinking for him?” Aziraphale wondered aloud.

Crowley bit back a retort about Heaven. “He’s probably just repeating stuff he hears at home; he’s probably got no clue how much of an ass he’s being,” Crowley said. They looked at each other for a moment. They really should have been saying that the other way around. After all, Crowley was the demon.

That afternoon they did say it the other way around. Nanny Ashtoreth had immediately told Warlock that he should have told her as soon as this had started, pretending she had ‘secret abilities’ that let her know when something was wrong. It was easier than saying, ‘I followed you to school and saw what’s been going on’.

She spent the afternoon telling him all sorts of ways to get back at that git Alfie, as she’d taken to calling him, while Brother Francis tried to convince Warlock to rise above it or tell a teacher.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s got no idea what he’s talking about,” Nanny Ashtoreth had hissed as Warlock had relayed what Brother Francis had said to him.

“That’s what he said about you,” Warlock yawned.

Nanny Ashtoreth just rolled her eyes and sung him to sleep.

It was only the following week that Crowley’s time off was cut short with a call coming through on Nanny Ashtoreth’s phone around lunchtime.

“Hello, how can I help you?” she said.

“Is this Ms Ashtoreth?” said the person on the other end of the phone.

“Speaking.”

“Ah, right, well, I’m calling from Mr Coates’ office, I’m afraid there’s been an incident involving Master Dowling and another boy. Could you please arrange for a parent or guardian to come collect him?”

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” she said, not even bothering to pretend that she’d involve either of his parents, they’d just tell her to go anyway.

She regretfully excused herself from Aziraphale’s company and headed off to the school.

For the second time, the Bentley pulled up outside the school, though it was Nanny Ashtoreth who exited it this time, and she stayed decidedly human-sized for the entire duration.

Principal Coates was the exact sort of man who could have made it in politics but had decided not to after experiencing a small setback. His hairline had receded well past his crown, but he still had that glib-ness to him, a way of speaking suggested everything but promised exactly nothing.

Nanny Ashtoreth assessed him and promptly ignored him in favour of checking on Warlock. He’d clearly been crying, no matter how much he tried to hide it by letting his hair fall in front of his face. He held out his phone to Crowley. The screen was smashed in. She didn’t want to think about what Thaddeus Dowling’s reaction would be to this top-of-the line phone being destroyed. No wonder Warlock seemed so upset.

“Don’t worry, dear, it’s just the screen protector,” she lied, pulling power from Hell to mend it, “see, all fixed.”

Warlock stared at the phone for a minute before hugging her. Although it would certainly help her reputation, she was dreading the time when he decided he was too old and cool to hug her.

“There we go,” she said, patting him on the back and turning to face the principal.

“What happened?” she demanded, allowing just a tiny bit of her demonic essence to leak out around the edges so he would know she was not someone to be trifled with.

“There was an, erm, altercation between Warlock and another student, Alfie Herriot. While Alfie has admitted to damaging Warlock’s phone, he maintains that he was provoked.” Principal Coates folded his arms and looked over at Warlock. “Warlock states that he has done nothing wrong.”

Nanny Ashtoreth nodded and signed at Warlock, “I’m sure the git deserved whatever you said, but I need you to tell him so I can get us out of this mess.”

Warlock sighed, in a manner alarmingly similar to Nanny Ashtoreth, and turned to Principal Coates. “I said if he always just says what his dad thinks because he’s too stupid to think himself.” Oh Satan, he was beginning to sound an awful lot like Aziraphale, it was rather endearing, not that Crowley would ever say such a thing to either of them.

“I see,” the principal replied.

“I don’t,” Nanny Ashtoreth snapped, “Warlock tells off a child who’s been saying all kinds of nasty things to him, and then that child tries to break a thousand-pound phone, and somehow Warlock is the one in trouble?”

Principal Coates seemed to shrink a little in his chair. “I-I, yes, of course, we will ensure that Alfie is reprimanded for his actions.”

“I certainly hope so,” she said coldly. She turned back to Warlock, “I’ll see you this afternoon, you’ve done very well.” Warlock gave her a small smile and went back outside with his newly repaired phone. Nanny Ashtoreth gave the principal one final warning glare, which he seemed to sense even through her sunglasses, and left.

Well that had been quite a day. She was thinking fondly about a bottle of Bowmore 25 Year Scotch Whisky she’d seen in her and Aziraphale’s shed when she sensed a demonic presence on the grounds of Winfield House. It smelled like acid burning through something nasty. Hastur. Shit. She pulled out of the main driveway where she usually parked her car and snuck it around to Aziraphale’s rooms, where it really shouldn’t have been able to go without a clear road, but that was something that worried lesser cars than the Bentley.

“Aziraphale!” She whispered, tapping his window.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, opening his door.

“You need to go, quickly. Make a report to Heaven that Warlock taught that stupid child the power of love or something.”

“Did he?”

“No, of course not! But someone’s here, to check on me, you have to go. Now.” Crowley tried to calm herself down, but images of the nightmare she’d had in 1862 were running through his mind. She couldn’t let Hell get their hands on Aziraphale. Not her angel.

Aziraphale nodded and was gone in a flash. Crowley winced as she remembered how strict Heaven were with teleportation. She hoped whatever story Aziraphale made up was good enough that they didn’t mention it.

She walked back from the servant’s quarters to the main house. Predictably, Hastur intercepted her on the way.

“Crowley,” Hastur said.

“Hastur, to what do I owe this honour,” she said, still grateful that Hastur didn’t understand irony or sarcasm.

“Just here to make sure you’re doing badly.”

“Oh, terribly. I was actually just about to make a report.” She tried to inject as much confidence into her words as she could.

“Really?”

“Yeah, just today, the Antichrist did something wonderfully evil.”

“Tell me.” Hastur ordered.

“I’m getting to it. He framed a peer for breaking something valuable.” Crowley knew Hastur wouldn’t understand the nuances of phones or school classes. “The child had been irritating him, so he made sure the kid was punished without anyone ever suspecting Warlock had done a thing.” It was almost true, close enough, anyway.

Hastur’s breathing seemed to increase its pace. That usually meant something had just died or was about to. “Excellent. The time is soon, when the child comes into-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know, four more years. Don’t worry, Duke Hastur, everything is going according to plan.” Well someone’s plan anyway. Crowley really didn’t want to hear more about what was going to happen when Warlock turned 11.

Hastur nodded and sunk into the ground beneath him.

How the Heaven was she supposed to do any of this? Well, she supposed, it wasn’t like she had a choice. Anything was better than losing the Earth. And Aziraphale, always Aziraphale.


	4. What You Can Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for 2016. It was a shit year. But there will be mentions of sexual assault in this chapter because Thaddeus Dowling gets called out in the #MeToo movement. Also its really short because I don’t like thinking about 2016. No one likes thinking about 2016.

2016

To the surprise of absolutely nobody who had been paying attention, 2016 was a tremendously difficult year at Winfield House. It was almost enough to make Aziraphale pity Thaddeus Dowling. Almost being the operative word. But Aziraphale found he had rather enjoyed the year, despite how terrible it was turning out to be, politically. The reason Aziraphale had been enjoying it so much could be summed up in two words: Pokémon Go!

It had always been a concern of Aziraphale’s that, in this age of technological marvels, eventually, Warlock would stop visiting him in the garden. But She must have been looking out for him because as soon as Pokémon Go! had been released Warlock had begun spending more time in the garden than ever before. Warlock had explained the game to him in the condescending tone children used to explain modern technology to luddite adults, and Aziraphale had found himself rather invested in Warlock’s collection of Pokémon.

“Not another Nidoran!” Warlock groaned from behind a bush. “There’s supposed to be a Rapidash nearby! C’mon Rapidash, where are you?”

“Hello Warlock, catch anything new today?” Brother Francis asked.

“My Metapod evolved into a Butterfree, but that’s about it.” Warlock walked around the bush so he could see Brother Francis.

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” Aziraphale was trying to teach Warlock the joys of having things, as opposed to being envious of what other’s had. It was just a bonus that it happened to also involve teaching Warlock about the wonderful things in his life that he shouldn’t destroy after his 11th Birthday.

“I guess,” Warlock said sullenly.

Aziraphale looked around for Crowley, but Nanny Ashtoreth was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Nanny Ashtoreth?” Brother Francis asked carefully.

“Mom wanted to talk to her,” Warlock said darkly. Despite being only eight years old, Warlock was well aware of the storm cloud that had been gathering over his parents. True, he didn’t quite understand what exactly was going on, he just knew that, on the rare occasion his father actually ate dinner with them, that his mom would just repeat, “We survived the last election, we’ll survive this one.” Over and over again until his father would hit the table and say, “Last election was nothing like this!” and they would eat the rest of their dinner in silence.

Warlock always let out a great sign of relief if Nanny led him to the kitchens instead of the dining hall at dinnertime. Dinner with her was a lot more pleasant than dinner with his parents. And a lot more informative.

“Mr Dowling’s just busy because the UK voted to leave the European Union, but they can’t agree on how to leave,” she would say, in actual words that an eight year old could understand instead of what the secret service people would say on his drive home from school: “They’ve rejected another Brexit package.” Which didn’t mean anything.

Or “Mr Dowling is just worried because it looks like the USA is about to be run by the worst person for the job, and that is saying a lot.” As opposed to “Mr Trump won the primaries.”

As if on cue, Nanny Ashtoreth made her way over to the gardens from the main house looking harried.

“Good afternoon, I was just asking Warlock here, where you were,” Brother Francis said.

“I was just held up by Mrs Dowling, she wanted a word.” Crowley shot Aziraphale a look that said, ‘We’ll continue this conversation when there isn’t an eight-year-old around.’

“Of course,” Brother Francis replied, “Warlock was just showing me his new Pokémon.”

If Aziraphale wasn’t very much mistaken, Crowley smiled, just a tiny bit, at that. It was foolish, really, but he still felt a great thrill whenever he made her smile.

“Metapod evolved!” Warlock said, holding his phone out. Nanny Ashtoreth looked at the phone, understanding absolutely nothing. Pokémon Go! was special to Brother Francis and Warlock, not to anyone else at Winfield House. Warlock turned back to Brother Francis and they began to discuss the game in more depth.

“It’s almost time to go inside,” Nanny Ashtoreth warned. It was the only time she interrupted them all evening.

Satisfied, that he’d used Pokémon to illustrate points about patience, preparation, and hard work, Brother Francis bid Warlock goodbye so he could go to dinner.

Aziraphale made his way to the shed. Whatever Mrs Dowling had said to Crowley must have been consuming her thoughts. She hadn’t once tried to over-run his lessons with evil ones. The year was proving to be more difficult than he could ever have predicted. But it hadn’t seemed to have effected Crowley as much. She had been for too busy being upset that a singer had died, he couldn’t think of the name.

“Good news,” said Crowley sourly, “you get to teach Warlock about respecting women.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale said, after taking a moment to find his voice. Crowley had changed back into a more masculine appearance, not that that had anything to do with Aziraphale’s momentary speechlessness. Crowley looked spectacular in any appearance, but any new one seemed to surprise Aziraphale. Yes, surprise, that was it, nothing more. The lie sounded weak even to him. He recalled one of his lessons, “there’s no point worrying about things you can’t have, just enjoy what you can,” he should probably listen to his own advice.

“Thaddeus Dowling has just been, how are they saying it these days? Hash-tag Me Too’d,” Crowley looked back in the direction of the house and scowled. “Mrs Dowling and his PR team are running damage control as we speak.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that expression,” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley closely.

“It means that, back when he was a senator, he abused his position of power used it to take advantage of women,” Crowley groaned, “I knew Hell picked him for a reason but . . .” He trailed off.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, he could guess why Mrs Dowling had spoken to Nanny Ashtoreth, “They aren’t going to be able to keep it from Warlock, are they?”

“It’s already gone to the press. S’just a matter of time, poor kid.”

“Warlock is not his father. They barely have anything to do with one another, it’s entirely possible that he won’t be as affected as you think.”

“I know, I just hope people don’t run around assuming the kid’s anything like his fake dad. His real dad didn’t even cross that line, no matter what Milton said.”

Aziraphale frowned for a moment. He’d always rather enjoyed _Paradise Lost_, mostly because it reminded him of Crowley. He’d always meant to ask if Crowley was annoyed that Lucifer so often got the credit for the original sin, but it wasn’t the sort of question he could just ask, so it stayed filed away with ‘What do we do if we fail?’, and many other questions that Aziraphale was afraid to put into words even in his mind, never to be asked.

Crowley continued, “A lot of humans have been saying the world doesn’t feel real. Online, I mean. They’re saying it feels like a nightmare, and they can’t wait to wake up from it all.”

“I wonder if those people are picking up on Warlock growing up. They’d have no idea what it means, of course, but they might be experiencing a sense of foreboding, like dogs before a storm.” Aziraphale said, certain Crowley would end up being the one to teach to Warlock that respecting women wasn’t optional. He was, after all, the most important woman in Warlock’s life, even if he wasn’t a woman at that moment.

“You might be right.” Crowley sighed. If asked, Aziraphale knew Crowley would say he never sighed, but a dramatic exhale is a sigh, no matter what Crowley might say.

Aziraphale let himself, just for a small moment, enjoy Crowley’s presence. The shed always smelled like him, all smoke, spices, and apples. If he reached out, the way he would to see what a human prayed for, he could feel that sensation, the one that had always reminded him of the Greek Myth, Tantalus’ punishment. He’d spent thousands of years wondering what it might mean, he suspected he knew the answer now, not that he could ever acknowledge it.

Humanity was right, the world was crumbling around them. And that was all the more reason to enjoy what he had while he still had it.


	5. Change a Lot or a Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Crowley is telling Warlock is based in a real story I used to tell kids as a nanny. Though mine generally did not encourage children to be evil (much).

2017

It was one of those nights when Warlock simply would not stop asking Nanny Ashtoreth questions, his mind much too active to even consider sleep.

“Nanny, do you hate anyone?” Warlock asked.

The truthful answer was yes, she hated lots of people, well, beings. Hatred was a prerequisite for being a demon. She hated Hastur and Ligur and their stupidity. She hated Beelzebub. She hated the angels. She hated certain humans, the ones that somehow managed to be worse than Hell, and especially any humans that had ever thought about hurting Aziraphale. She hated enough that she could burn everything around her with Hellfire.

But she also loved. Hatred and love were never opposite feelings. The opposite of both of them was absolute apathy, the absence of strong emotion. Love and hatred were the same feeling, just the positive and negative versions of it. Crowley had never considered that part of why she was able to hate so strongly was because she loved every bit as much as she hated. Perhaps more.

“Of course I do, dear.” The bastards you think of as your parents for starters.

“Why?”

“Anger is how you know something isn’t right.” She tried to go for the sort of tone Aziraphale used when giving his life lessons, though he’d never say anything like this to anyone but Crowley. “If something happens and it makes you angry, that’s how you know that what happened wasn’t right or fair.”

“What if I’m angry about something that didn’t happen to me? Like the tower fires last month?”

“Then you’re angry at the idiots who decided to make the building extra flammable, and the refrigerator company for selling a faulty product. And that’s perfectly alright. Anger gets things fixed.” She leant over and brushed some hair out of Warlock’s face. He’d be nine years old in a week. Soon enough he’d decide he was too old for her stories before bed. Too old for a nanny at all, really. He wouldn’t be able to get rid of her that easily. But if she was being honest with herself (an unfortunate habit that she really ought to get rid of), she’d miss it.

“Can you tell me the story?” That time wasn’t here yet, though.

“Where were we up to?” She wasn’t sure when Warlock had fallen asleep.

“The witch was about to light the mean people on fire because they tried to burn her.”

Warlock fell asleep soon after that. Nanny Ashtoreth stayed, just in case he had another nightmare. His parents had been fighting again, not that they ever seemed to stop. It was ridiculous that people like the Dowlings could be given everything they could ever want on a silver platter and still find ways to make themselves bitter and miserable. It would have been so easy for them to be decent people, but they just couldn’t be bothered. She’d seen it plenty of times, Caligula, the Medici, the court of Louis XVI: People born to riches and power didn’t want anything except more riches and power. She was pretty sure Jesus had said something about it, “it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” That sounded about right.

Crowley didn’t realise she’d fallen asleep until it was already too late. It had been over 155 years since she’d had her last nightmare, which had started the events of 1862. In the dream, she stood above Winfield house, looking down at Warlock racing around the garden like he used to when he was younger. But something was wrong. There was no doddery old Brother Francis in the garden. Warlock was alone.

She tried to push out her essence in search of Aziraphale, but she couldn’t. It was as if everything she was had been squished into her corporation with no way out, like a balloon that had been over-filled with air.

“No!” Aziraphale’s voice came from above her. It was the exact tone he’d used so many times before. The one he used when he was at risk of discorporation, still so prim and proper, but with a hint of fear showing through the cracks.

She looked up and there he was. She was so relieved to see him, so happy that he was OK. She tried to fly up to him, but her wings wouldn’t manifest.

There was someone else up there as well. She couldn’t see who it was. They got closer to Aziraphale pushing him towards something. But there was nothing to push towards except the expanse of blue sky. Whatever it was, they seemed to reach it. Aziraphale stumbled. That didn’t look right. Aziraphale never stumbled because he never expected to. Vaguely, she became aware that she was dreaming. Not aware enough to snap herself out of it, but enough that she knew it wasn’t real.

Whatever platform dream-Aziraphale was standing on vanished. He was plummeting towards the Earth, punching round holes in clouds as he tore through them.

Dream-Aziraphale was Falling. The kind with a capital F. And there was nothing Crowley could do but watch.

She pulled at power, at anything - Hell, Heaven, Herself, she didn’t care – desperately trying to move, and she did. She woke up.

She must have fallen asleep in the armchair beside Warlock’s bed. There were still a few minutes before he was due to wake up. She’d probably left Aziraphale waiting in the shed all night. No, she wasn’t going to think about that. She needed to get out of there. If Warlock had school, it would have been easy enough to get away, but alas it was July. She quickly and demonically miracled a playdate, that had been planned for the next day, to today.

As soon as Warlock had left, she was off. She did feel a little guilty, knowing how much Warlock disliked the kids his parents wanted him to befriend. But she had needed to get out, to go somewhere where Armageddon wasn’t in the making, somewhere where she and Aziraphale weren’t dooming themselves in place of the world. After all, if her plan succeeded, there was no way Heaven or Hell were going to let them get away with it.

Perhaps she ought to tell him. No, she couldn’t. Two more years with him, even if it wasn’t the way she wanted to be with him, was better than two years of rejection.

* * *

If there is one thing that 6000 odd years of acquaintance will give you, it is an understanding of the other person. Aziraphale was not worried when Crowley didn’t make an appearance in their shed. A little disappointed, maybe, but not worried.

When he saw the secret service people come and whisk Warlock away, he decided to take advantage of a free day and collect a few more books from his shop. Officially, the shop was closed to the public for the next few years because the owner had had to move to the country to take care of his sick and ageing mother. Aziraphale decided that was the last time Crowley was allowed to write the sign on the door.

He stopped by Heaven to file a completely superfluous report and teleported himself back to the bookshop. He’d deliberately ‘forgotten’ one page of the report, so he’d have to stop by Heaven on the way back. Without Crowley and the Bentley, Heaven was the easiest way to travel.

Aziraphale admired the bookshop. “There we are, you’ve done very well,” he told it, “I’ll be back soon enough. Warlock’s nearly too old to have a full-time nanny, and once Crowley changes to part-time, I’ll do the same.”

He really loved his shop. Crowley was always saying that it was barely a shop, more like a private collection of books that Aziraphale happened to display like they were for sale. But it was his and it was delightful, and that was what mattered, not whether it was a shop or not.

He filled an attaché case with a few favourites that he hadn’t gotten around to picking up. The shop did an excellent job taking care of itself, so there wasn’t really all that much for him to do. The shelves had cultivated the right amount of dust so as not to look appealing to customers, the books were just as crooked and disorganised as they had been when he’d last left it a few weeks ago. But he was unwilling to leave London just yet.

He let himself wander through the winding streets that were so familiar yet so changeable. He could remember when they were little more than dirt roads surrounded by huts made of mud and animal faeces. Humanity had learned so much since then – though, admittedly also so little.

He ended up walking past St James Park, careful not to get too close; the ducks were not friendly if you had not brought them anything to eat. They were cruel masters, demanding tribute. Past the Ritz, thinking fondly of the meal Crowley had treated him to in 2008. It was so hard to keep track of which of them owed what to the other, but he was certain he owed Crowley after that. He continued to walk down the A4 for quite some time before he felt something. He knew that something, the smell of smoke, spices, and apples, the feeling of his corporations traitorous heart leaping in his chest. Crowley was nearby. Searched around for the source of it all and found it was coming from the Harrods department store.

Aziraphale wondered what trouble Crowley was managing to cause in there.

Aziraphale took great pains to ensure that their running into each other looked like a coincidence, after all, you never knew who was watching. And it was a coincidence, really. Aziraphale was just sort of helping it along.

“Crowley?” he said, when he saw her up close. He’d never seen her go out as Nanny Ashtoreth. As far as he knew she’d never been her outside of Winfield House before that day.

“Angel?” She was confused, clearly not expecting to see him in Harrods of all places.

“Causing trouble, I assume?” he said, she had that look on her face, the smug one that said she’d just caused someone to have a very bad day.

“Always,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I stopped at the bookshop and was going for a walk when I saw you,” he said, truthfully, well, more or less truthfully.

“Well, since you’re here,” she pursed her lips as if she was considering not saying what followed, “there is a bakery downstairs.”

“Is there indeed? I suppose I shall have to assess it then.”

“I suppose you shall,” she said.

It occurred to Aziraphale then that they looked very much like a couple. Humans would make up any old excuse as to why two men or two women would be spending time together, but when they saw one of each, they were very quick to assume the nature of the relationship was romantic. Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about that too much.

“So why were you here, anyway?” he asked her, pushing all thoughts of romance from his mind.

“I just popped in to buy Warlock that game console he wants for his birthday. The Nintendo one.” Crowley held up her shopping bag and pulled out a large box that said, ‘Nintendo Switch’. “I assure you’re getting him the usual book?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale always gave Warlock books. Warlock didn’t like them quite as much as video games (there were fewer bragging rights to be had over books), but he read them all and was starting to form rather interesting opinions about them. Aziraphale was enjoying Warlock’s company a lot more now that the child had opinions of his own. Apparently, Crowley had been the one to talk him into reading his book from last year, an old copy of Grimm’s fairy tales, with promises of how morbid they were. Aziraphale was certain that the book he would receive this year (_The Witches _by Roald Dahl) would be read immediately, now that Warlock had faith in his book recommendations.

The Harrods bakery was acceptable. The bread lacked the love that came from a small, non-corporate bakery, but it was still perfectly bread-like.

“Do you want a lift back?” Crowley offered as they walked to where his car was parked.

“I have to deliver this, I’m afraid, but thank you,” Aziraphale said, holding up the page from his report. He was glad that he had the sense to end this now. Too much time with Crowley – too much time alone with Crowley, was dangerous enough as it was.

“See you later then, I s’pose.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tried to convince himself that he was not sad as he watched the Bentley drive away. There was no point pushing these things. They only had two more years before they found out if their work had paid off. Now was not the time to be getting distracted by things like this. No matter how pleasant the distraction might seem.


	6. One More Year

2018

“I’m bored!” Warlock announced to Nanny Ashtoreth as if it were the greatest revelation mankind had ever achieved. “Can’t I finish my homework later?”

“You can,” Nanny Ashtoreth said.

“You aren’t supposed to agree with me,” Warlock said. You’re supposed to tell me that I can’t do anything I like until my homework’s done.”

“Why would I do that? You always get it done in time. Take a break or don’t, whatever you want to do.” Nanny Ashtoreth went back to her phone, she was looking for a rare book Aziraphale wanted. There was a copy on eBay, but she didn’t feel like getting involved in a bidding war just yet, she’d wait until there were seconds to go and swoop in and buy it. That would drive the other bidders up the wall.

“None of my friend’s nannies act like you. They’re always telling them to do their homework and chores and stuff.”

I don’t believe for a minute that any of those fools from your school do chores,” Nanny Ashtoreth said, not looking up. She refused to call those kids his friends. Friends were supposed to be fun to spend time with, not jerks who compared themselves to each other all blessed day, each of them desperate to come out on top.

Warlock shrugged and finished the last of his homework. Nanny Ashtoreth only came by for the hours between the end of school and his bedtime. She still tucked him in and told him stories, but that wasn’t something Warlock would ever tell anybody. One of the perks of being almost ten was that Warlock was smart enough to figure things out for himself, but still young enough that people didn’t think he was that smart yet. It was a good age to be.

“Finished!” he announced, making Nanny Ashtoreth smile.

“Good,” she said, standing up, “what do you want to do now?”

Warlock knew what she wanted to do. She wanted him to say he wanted to play in the garden where Brother Francis would be waiting, ready to tell him to be nice and listen to his conscience and all that. He had been paying attention for all these years, after all. He picked up his Nintendo Switch and said. “I’ll take this outside.”

Nanny Ashtoreth’s smile got wider. Warlock wanted to laugh, could she be any more obvious? Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis were easily the only people at Winfield House he talked to. Sure, his mom would sometimes try, but she didn’t even know which baby teeth he’d lost or what book he was reading so she didn’t count. The problem was, it meant he could never talk to anyone about Nanny Ashtoreth or Brother Francis. He knew they were friends, the real kind, like he saw on TV, where they could make fun of each other but still laugh it off at the end of the day. They seemed to really like each other’s company, and actively want to be around each other. Warlock couldn’t wait to get away from his friends when the school day ended.

Sometimes Warlock wondered in Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis were dating, but he couldn’t imagine it: Where would they go? What would they do? He couldn’t imagine them going to the cinema. And Brother Francis would track dirt all through a fancy restaurant.

“Warlock!” Brother Francis exclaimed when he saw them, “catch any new Pokémon?”

“I’m playing Mariokart,” Warlock said, he never should have told Brother Francis that you could play Pokémon on the Switch.

“Ah, I see,” Brother Francis said, clearly not seeing anything at all. “How long until school finishes for the Summer?”

“Two more weeks,” he said automatically as he lined up a green shell.

“It’s not long to your birthday after that,” Nanny Ashtoreth said. Warlock knew that, but he liked that Nanny remembered. His birthday always seemed to sneak up on his parents and catch them by surprise. But Nanny and Brother Francis always knew when it was.

“Have you decided what sort of party you’ll have?” Brother Francis asked. That got Warlock’s full attention. He couldn’t win the 150CC cup and talk about his birthday party at the same time, they were both far too important.

“Alfie says all the best parties are at escape rooms,” Warlock says.

“Yeah, well, Alfie’s a right prat,” Nanny Ashtoreth whispered so low that only Brother Francis could hear.

“But I think I wanna do laser tag. It’ll be fun. I’ll tell Alfie I’ll do an escape room next year.” Warlock turned back to his video game.

“I’d wanna shoot all those kids too, if I were him,” Crowley whispered to Aziraphale once Warlock was sufficiently absorbed in the game. She could always tell when he was because he moved his body with each of the turns.

“He won’t be able to do an escape room next year, will he?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not likely. S’weird to think, isn’t it? Only one more year to go,” she said, and it was as though something was pulling at the fabric of reality, stretching everything until it was so tense, it would only have taken one word to break it. But Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten used to that tension. They had put all of their proverbial eggs in one basket simply because the alternative was too terrifying, too distressing, to even consider. It would work, it had to work.

Once the school holidays had begun, Mrs Dowling informed Nanny Ashtoreth that she wouldn’t be needed on the day of Warlock’s birthday party.

“We’re having it at some kind of arena. It has its own supervisors, so you won’t be needed on the day,” Mrs Dowling said, not looking up from her phone.

“Of course, Mrs Dowling,” Crowley replied, of course she knew where the party was, she was the one who had booked it.

“He’s just getting to the age where having a nanny at his party would be . . . unusual.”

“Indeed.” This was a far cry from the conversation they’d had several months earlier, when Nanny Ashtoreth had dropped down to part time.

“I can’t believe that’s in your contract. Warlock needs a nanny. No, you’ll have to stay full-time,” Harriet Dowling had said, looking at the contract in disbelief.

“Warlock is nine years old, that’s perfectly old enough to only have a nanny a few days a week. I’ll be in every day after school and half-days on the weekends.” Nanny Ashtoreth had spoken in a tone that allowed for no argument. She turned to go.

“But how are we supposed to keep him occupied?” Mrs Dowling demanded; this was the closest she had ever come to begging in all the time Nanny Ashtoreth had worked for her.

“You could take him for a walk. Or give him a book to read or a game to play.” Nanny Ashtoreth said coolly. True, she wasn’t convinced Warlock would go for it now. It would be too little too late. Warlock was growing up, he had opinions on things and the ability to be a right little shit when he wanted to be. It was the wonderful combination of resenting one’s parents and not feeling any real need to respect them that made Warlock Dowling the way he was.

In all these years, Crowley had always refrained from criticising the Dowling’s parenting. But demons only have so much self-control, and Crowley was nearly always using all of hers up on Aziraphale.

When Warlock’s birthday did arrive, Crowley found himself in Aziraphale’s bookshop in a more masculine form (there was nothing like having to be in one form to make you want to try absolutely anything else).

What Crowley wanted to say was, ‘Since the world’s ending in one year unless our very long-shot plan has worked, I figured I should probably tell you that I love you. Which is a really shitty thing to say considering we’re about to have to go to war on what was once the best planet in all of creation. But I’ve been sitting on this for 6000 years and I have to tell you before this all goes tits up.’

What he said was, “D’you wanna order in?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale hummed, he clearly hadn’t been paying attention to anything but the book in his lap for quite some time.

“I asked if you wanted to order lunch?” Crowley repeated.

“What? Get take-away?” Aziraphale responded as if Crowley had just asked him if he felt like dropping his favourite books into a pond.

“That Indian place you like does delivery now, I just don’t really feel like moving,” Crowley said, meaning, ‘I don’t want to leave because outside this shop we have to be so careful to make sure nobody sees us and I just don’t have the energy to deal with that today.’

“If you insist,” Aziraphale acquiesced, going back to his book.

One of Crowley’s many favourite things about Aziraphale was that he didn’t need to stop time just to enjoy him. When Aziraphale was with him, he could be so unabashedly himself and Crowley could bask in it for as long as he needed. It was definitely pathetic, and he knew it, to be happily occupied with staring at someone for as long as he could get away with. But there were so few opportunities for him to be happy, fewer still as the world edged closer to complete destruction, that he didn’t begrudge himself this.

Their food arrived and he dragged himself to the door to collect it. He caught Aziraphale’s knowing glance as he tipped the delivery person.

“Shut up,” he said.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“That’s beside the point.” Crowley set the food out on the table. He’d taken Aziraphale to eat at the restaurant enough times that he knew the order in which Aziraphale would want the dishes. He glared at the ones that would have to wait until he was satisfied that they wouldn’t dare go cold.

He’d stopped by his flat to berate his plants for getting complacent. Just because the world was ending didn’t mean they were allowed to get complacent. He’d finally gotten rid of a rattlesnake plant that had been giving him trouble, which always put him in a good mood. The day would have been perfect if it weren’t for the blanket of fear that had surrounded him since he’d delivered the Antichrist and got tighter with every passing day.

Aziraphale placed a takeout lid with a few gulaab jamun on it in front of Crowley.

“What’s this?” he said.

“Don’t play dumb with me, you always have a few of these, don’t think I don’t notice,” Aziraphale said.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crowley said between mouthfuls of the rose and honey dumplings. They were just delicious enough that he might consider eating them.

Once every container was empty, they sat across from one another in silence. The kind of silence that gets under your skin and makes you blurt out uncomfortable truths just to make it end. The silence chose it’s victim.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice broke the silence.

“Hm?” Crowley hummed.

“How do we make sure the plan, the plan with Warlock that is, works?” Aziraphale asked.

“We hope, I guess. You could pray if you like,” Crowley replied. It wasn’t a good answer, but there weren’t any better ones to be had.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, someone might hear me.” Aziraphale looked away.

This was it, the final year of Earth’s existence unless Heaven’s worst angel and Hell’s best demon could do something to stop it.


End file.
